Crimson on White - Prologue
Crimson on White - Prologue Great. It was snowing again. Just what was needed. "Second squad, move it up!" commanded the orc, hefting a large rifle to his shoulder and signaling his companions. "Watch the right flank, MOVE IT!" The air crackled with arcane energy as a volley of bolts whizzed past the orc's head. "HIT THE DIRT!" cried a Forsaken as he ducked, barely avoiding the arcane missiles. A tauren was not so lucky, taking the full brunt of the magic assault in the chest before toppling over. "Sergeant!" "On it!" The Forsaken warlock rose from his crouched position and made a few movements with his hand. From thin air pounced a felhunter, its exposed muscles in sinew glistening in the thick snow as it bounded towards the hidden mage. The warlock shattered a purple crystal in his half-decayed hand and ignited the shards. Three seconds later, the nearby snow drift detonated, sending pieces of the concealed human mage across the area for the Felhunter to feast on. "Spirits damnit all, where the hell is my air support?" demanded the orc as he unslung his rifle and sent a couple of shots into the surrounding hills. His bullets were met with the sounds of anguished screaming. Elf, by the sounds of it. "Command says Jetzor's three minutes out, sir!" called another orc, who held a small stone in her hand as she tended to the wounds of the tauren. The rifle-toting orc jogged over to the fallen tauren. He was in pain, and the magics of the shamaness were working far too slowly. "Dun...wanna die...ou' here..." managed the bull, red liquid bubbling from the corner of his mouth. "Dun...wanna die...in th' snow...so cold." "Easy, soldier," said the orc, ripping part of his tunic and covering the wound as best he could. The stench of burned flesh permeated the air, making the orc want to cover his mouth. "Seen a troll take far worse than this. Had a dwarf tank blow a hole clear through his shoulder," the orc took out a few runed bandages and held the cloth in place. "Used to keep his spare hanky in there." The bull managed a weak smile, before going into another coughing fit. More red stained the white snow. "Sir!" shouted the Forsaken. "Word is three steam batallions coming in from the north!" "Where the bloody fark is Jetz?!" demanded the orc, still tending to the fallen soldier's wounds. "Command lost contact over Stonehearth, sir!" "DAMNIT ALL! Alright, troops, take your positions! We got steamers comin in, and we gotta hold 'em till the air support gets here!" "Ya...gotta leave me...Ess Gee sir..." "Hey, c'mon. We're gonna pull through this. Y'know why?" The bull shook his head. "Because, Scout, we're too pretty. We're just too damned pretty for the spirits to let us die. They'd get jealous, Scout. Can't have guys prettier than them wanderin around the spirit realm, right? Wouldn't be right. Now, you just hang in there. Our angels are gonna scream in here on wings of flame, light up this here valley. Hear?" "Sir..." a boney hand rested on the orc's shoulder. "What is it, Sergeant?" The Forsaken led him away from the dying tauren. "Command's pulling out. Area's too hot. They're falling back to Snowfall to regroup." There was a whump and then an explosion as a steam tank shell hit the earth several meters away from the unit. The orc spat and then slammed his shoulder against a boulder, taking careful aim at the approaching tanks. "Dont'cha fire till ya can smell 'em..." Category:StoriesCategory:Etar.